


Poetic License

by TempuraSteel



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AMAZING ART INCLUDED, Flustered Ignis, Gladio reads a lot of books, Ignis can't handle himself, Intelligent Gladio, M/M, Poetry, Reciting Kink, Sensual library fuckery, brotherhood era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-07 11:26:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14079888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempuraSteel/pseuds/TempuraSteel
Summary: After an exhausting day of schooling Prince Noctis in the art of political nuances, Ignis wants nothing more than to fall face-first into his pillow.  An unexpected and well-read library patron might just change his mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaboration with the AMAZING Hanatsuki89, whom you can find on Twitter and Tumblr! The world's hottest comic can be found at the bottom of this page, as well as on their pages. You're not ready for it, trust me. REALLY. I'm still reeling!

Page after page of confusion marked via highlighted tabs or penciled in questions. The Prince's understanding of the report is virtually non-existent, given the amount of tabs on each page. Ignis rakes his hand through his hair with a sigh. Perhaps if the young royal bothered to research a bit on his own . . .

But of course, Noctis concerned himself with other things. School work often took precedence over political matters, exams given priority over any other manner of study. While Ignis certainly understood the importance of such things, Noctis's duty to the crown was often overlooked. Which left the advisor in charge of seeing to it that the Prince was educated in other ways.

Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger and eyes the pile of books upon the table with a tired stare. It is far too early for this. The sun has only barely begun to set and already, Ignis longs for the comfortable solitude of his personal quarters. Gathering an armful of books, he shoves himself away from the table and sets about the task of replacing each one.

The last book is one Noctis has pulled himself, a mythology of the Astrals that is questionably written, something for a child perhaps, if one were looking to begin with the very basic lore. Just why Noctis, a child of the gods themselves, has chosen such an easy book is beyond the advisor. Nonetheless, he travels to the far end of the library to shelve the slender book and rounds the corner with just enough room to avoid crashing into an unsuspecting person browsing the stacks.

"Pardon," Ignis murmurs. "I did not see you th . . ." His voice trails away as he glances over the rims of his glasses to actually take a look at the individual has nearly collided with. "Ah, Gladio. My apologies. My mind is elsewhere."

The Shield-in-training tilts his head, fingers cradling a thick, dark green volume with gilded pages. "No problem," he says. "Just lookin' for a little light bedtime reading."

Ignis arches an eyebrow. Resting in those massive palms is a book he has seen many times before, a proper account of the Astrals written in a lyrical, poetic style often unappreciated by the masses.

"I know of a few far less complex than that one, if you wish for something light," Ignis says.

"Nah." Gladio thumbs the next page of the volume with a careful turn. "I like this one. Read it about ten times now."

"Ten . . ." Ignis pauses to clear his throat. " _Ten_ times?"

Gladio leans against the shelf with a cock of his hip, the still-healing tattoo upon his bare shoulder flexing with the movement. "What, you think I don't read, Specs?"

Ignis straightens with a look of indignation. "I believe no such thing. Don't be absurd." He wills himself to focus on Gladio's expression and not the "unintentional" flexation of his arm. "It is simply that I know of very few people with an appreciation for this particular volume."

"Well." Gladio flicks his gaze to the words upon the page. "What's not to like? I mean, it's a pretty hot love story, you know."

Ignis stiffens. Gods, was the other man doing this on purpose as some sort of suggestive commentary? Hmph, well . . .

"You've read it, huh?" Gladio traces a hand over thin paper with an almost reverent touch. "Shiva's got it bad for the Infernian. I mean, listen to this."

"Gladio," Ignis begins. "It's quite alright. You needn't--"

But the other man has already begun to read the words upon the page, his voice a dark rumble in the quiet stillness of the library's corridors.

_" 'And his fondness for the fragility_  
_Of their mortality warmed her,_  
_Stretching tender tendrils of wonder_  
_From that which had grown nothing for ages.' "_

The muscles in Ignis's chest contract and clench, as if listening to Gladio has stolen his ability to draw a proper breath. Literary grace upon the often coarse tongue of this man is a strikingly sensual nuance that Ignis has not prepared himself for. As if he ever could have.

Gladio pauses, flicking amber eyes to his companion. "You want me to stop?"

"I . . ." Ignis clears his throat. What exactly did one say to such a thing? "No."

Gladio snaps the book closed with one hand, sword roughened fingers reaching to brush Ignis's bare wrist.

_" 'And his hand did twine within her own_  
_Brazen flame to tentative ice . . .' "_

Licking suddenly dry lips, Ignis does not realize that his back has connected with the opposite bookshelf until the spine of an errant volume rubs against his own.

  _" Forbidden pleasures thawing, melting,_  
_An unfurling of magic's purest prime.' "_

Ignis blinks. Steels himself with a slow breath. "Have you . . ." He pauses. "Have you memorized the prose?"

Gladio glances at the closed book for a moment. "Probably." The man has not stepped closer, but somehow, his energy crowds Ignis's personal space into nothingness, as if threatening to absorb him. "I do that a lot."

"Do you . . ." Not a question, but rather a statement of musing wonderment.

"Yeah."

One finger trails the top of his hand.

_" 'And by the gifted grace of her ethereal elegance,_  
_The flame of his heart did arise from ashen smolder,_  
_A euphoric blaze of contradiction in contrast_  
_To the frozen depths of her forbidden thoughts.' "_

Oh, how Ignis understood this verse on such an irritatingly personal level . . .

The hand travels the length of his arm, slips to cover the curve of his shoulder, wanders the length of his neck.

_" 'How smooth the glacial skin,_  
_Warmed by the heated feathering of his touch, ' "_

The man leans unbearably close. Gods, his eyes . . . dark, honeyed amber, fringed with thick lashes, deep and fathomless, the heat of his breath a brush of warmth scant inches from his lips.

_"' Her breath an icy flare of exultation_  
_Dissipating into the ever blackening night.' "_

He cannot breathe, cannot think, his ability to form a coherent sentence stolen by the gentle touch of callused fingers and the ever shrinking proximity of an enticing mouth. The tip of Gladio's nose brushes his own, a feather-light skin-to-skin contact that sends a jolt of heat through his body.

"You like this story, Iggy?"

Fingers trace the curve of his jaw and the tips of Ignis's own fingers quiver before he can fist his hands to still it.

" . . . y-yes,." Ignis murmurs.

A hand slides into his hair, fingers grasping the silken strands with slow-tightening tension.

_" 'A frenzied plume of heat_  
_Tempered by the delicate hush of morning frost_  
_And the stars did yield to backlit gold_  
_Upon the kiss of breaking dawn."_

The heat of words murmured against the corner of his mouth, a dark rumble of sound, a soft, teasing brush of lips. The faintest tremor of his own body, every inch of muscle drawing taut in expectation. A pause. A heartbeat. And Gladio's lips meld with own, a passionate press of mouths that Ignis surrenders to far more completely than he should have allowed, his body betraying him with such willing pliancy that Gladio's rumble of approval reverberates down his spine.

This man, his cocky and often uncouth companion for many a year, this alleged Casanova among the Crownsguard, is seducing the stoic advisor through nothing more than a kiss and the press of his body. No lascivious wandering of hands, no obscenities or perversions . . . only the skilled insistence of his lips and the splaying of one hand across the small of Ignis's back, as if to steady him, hold him in place for more.

It is with some reluctance that Ignis allows their lips to part, his grip upon Gladio's shoulder's loosening to normalcy as he remembers the freshness of the tattooed skin.

"Oh . . .Gladio, do forgive me," Ignis says. "I seem to have forgotten your sore shoulders."

The other man shrugs. "No big deal." He flicks the warmth of his amber eyes to meet Ignis's stare and the advisor cannot suppress the flush that creeps over his cheeks. "You wanna go into the city and grab some dinner with me, Iggy? My treat."

Was this the other man's way of asking him on some sort of date? Did it honestly matter?

"I would very much enjoy that," Ignis says.

One corner of Gladio's mouth curves into a familiar half-smile. "Okay," he says. "Let me get changed. Meet you back here in a bit?"

"Alright," Ignis says.

A hand swipes the fringe of his hair away from his forehead, only to have it promptly reassert itself as it was before.

"You used to wear this out of your face," Gladio says. "I liked it." He leans in and steals a brief, searching kiss from Ignis's still-parted lips. "Be back soon."

It is not until Gladio's retreating form has vanished that Ignis leans against the bookcase, raking a hand through his hair with a sigh. This alleged "date" was an exceedingly improper idea. As if Ignis had any business enjoying such a luxury with . . . well, with anyone. But the tactile memory of Gladio's lips against his own leaves a phantom brand upon his mouth, the brush of the stubble along his chin still a faint prickle upon his skin.

He glances at his reflection in the window with a squint, pushes his hair away from his forehead and frowns. _What nonsense._ Still . . .

A brief time passes before Gladio returns, clad in a more formal version of his typical all-black attire, a classic button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to elbow length and a pair of supple leather pants far thinner than those one would wear in battle. Ignis arches an eyebrow. Leave it to Gladio to find "dressy" leather.

"Shall we?" Gladio offers an arm to the advisor, who stares blankly at it for a moment before slipping his own around it.

"Lead on," Ignis says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner turns out to be a little more than Ignis anticipated.

The sky chooses the moment they step foot onto the sidewalk to relinquish its hold upon the apparent torrential downpour contained within the gray clouds and Ignis shields his forehead with one hand in an effort to save his vision from being obscured by water.

An arm loops through his own, securing him against the other man's side and Ignis finds himself escorted from the street before he can object. The two of them huddle beneath the nearest canopy, the spiked upsweep of Gladio's hair threatening to droop and the edges of Ignis's hair curling to wisps of ringlets with the intrusion of moisture.

"Wretched weather," Ignis says. "One never knows if an umbrella is needed."

"Hmn, tell me about it." Gladio mops at his face. "Look, I don't know where you wanna go, but it's getting too late for some fancy shit." He flashes a smile to Ignis that is a pleasant, charming contrast to his chiseled features. "I could go for a good burger, though."

Despite his rather damp countenance, Ignis finds himself returning the smile before he can manage to suppress it. "Yes, well. I know just the place, then. Just a block away, actually." He glances up at the rumbling sky and frowns just a touch. "Perhaps if we wait a moment or two, this mess will relent enough to grant us a drier passage."

"I doubt it." Gladio stiffens for a moment, expression collapsing into a vulnerable sort of desperation. He ducks into the crook of his elbow and turns away from Ignis just enough to muffle a sneeze into the crook of his elbow. "Sorry." He passes the back of his hand beneath his nose with a sniffle. "Don't know what it is about rain and my damn sinuses."

"Well," Ignis begins. "One would _think_ that perhaps you might consider a jacket from time to time in this weather."

"Hmn." Gladio offers him a crooked smile before glancing back towards the sidewalk. "Guess we can't get any wetter."

Ignis's gaze is calm. "Is that so? Well." He nods towards the slackening rain. "I suppose this is as good a time as any, then. Shall we make a run for it?"

The swordsman arches an eyebrow. "Think you can keep up?"

Such self-assured banter. How strangely endearing it seems at this point. Perhaps the barometric pressure has compressed his own common sense.

"I feel quite certain I'll manage," Ignis says as he gestures down the block with his left hand. "There. The orange canopy."

"Let's go."

Despite Gladio's longer stride, Ignis has no trouble matching his sprint, even going so far as to pull ahead just a touch before coming to halt just beneath their appointed destination.

"Here we are," Ignis says. "Nothing fancy, as requested."

Gladio steps aside to hold the door open and Ignis suppresses a smile. Casual chivalry is a most befitting quality, especially with this man, who is as trained in courtly mannerisms as he, yet rarely chooses to display it. A fine treat, indeed.

"Damn," Gladio says, one hand upon his now-growling stomach. "Didn't realize how hungry I was." He pauses just before their appointed table, features slackening, and flinches into another sneeze.

"Bless you," Ignis says. "Might I suggest a bit of tea while we wait? You most certainly look as if you could use it."

"Yeah?" Gladio's stare travels the length of his torso. "I'm not the one shivering."

_Blast it._

"Well." Ignis points to the vent above the table. "We are sitting beneath an air conditioner vent."

"Which isn't on because it's cold as shit outside," Gladio reminds him with a smirk. "And besides, I'm wearing leather. I'm not that wet."

Ignis would beg to differ. Gladio is soaked to the bone, the material of his dress shirt clinging to his chest in a manner that borders on obscene. His every curve is highlighted by the pull of fabric, as if it has been painted on rather than merely worn.

"I cannot believe you are going about in this weather without a jacket," Ignis repeats, for he can suddenly think of nothing constructive to say.

"I've got one," Gladio says. "Just left it at the dojo is all." His eyes narrow to slits of amber, nose twitching before ducking into another sneeze.

"Again, bless you," Ignis says. He props an arm on the table and glances at the man over the rims of his glasses. "Should I spare you the sentiment or are you just going to keep at it?"

Gladio flashes him a crooked smile that is both disarming and cocky. "Thanks. I think." He cants his head to one side and strokes the fine mesh of hair that edges his chin. "Anything else, smartass?"

"Not at the moment," Ignis says.

The smirk curves into a sharper angle as the man leans back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. "You're a real piece of work."

Ignis allows his gaze to linger on the swell of Gladio's bicep through his shirt and follows the line of muscle down his torso.

 _Speak for yourself,_ he thinks.

"That's quite an impressive piece of art," Ignis says, nodding towards Gladio's exposed forearm. "How long does something of that nature take?"

"The tatt?" Gladio glances at his arm with a shrug. "I dunno know long it's gonna take. 40 hours maybe? Not all at once, of course." He takes a sip of the complimentary water and winks at Ignis over the rim of the glass. "Tattoo artist can't hold a machine that long."

"Of course," Ignis says. "I can imagine piercing that thick skin of yours takes more patience than one man can muster in a single session."

A hand lights upon his own and Ignis startles, flicking his gaze to where Gladio's meaty palm covers the tops his fingers.

"I enjoy this, you know," Gladio says. "Us giving each other shit." Amber eyes fix him with a pointed stare. "I enjoy _you._ "

Color threatens to rise in Ignis's fair skin, but he manages to quell the sensation with a soft clearing of his throat as he moves a finger beneath Gladio's hand in subtle reciprocation.

"I enjoy this as well," Ignis says. "It's been quite some time since I--" He pauses, doing his best to affect a bland stare as Gladio withdraws his hand and flinches into another sneeze with far less warning than before. "Oh, bloody hell, Gladio."

"Heh, sorry." Gladio rubs at his nose with a sniff. "Damn weather."

_Indeed._

Their conversation turns to filling in the gaps of the past week, Ignis sharing the details of his trials with seeing to it that Noctis had the proper education as an upcoming king and Gladio explaining the significance of the tattoo and his training as the next Shield. There had been a time when Gladio was not so eager to serve Noctis and knowing Gladio as he did, Ignis could certainly understand why. With Gladio, respect was not casually given. It was earned. The man was loyal to a fault, protective and intimidating. Yet beneath it all was a sensitive warmth that few rarely witnessed along with an intelligence that most would consider unexpected, given what the roughened exterior presented. But Ignis had always known better, despite Gladio's efforts in his younger days to pretend such things did not exist within himself.

"So, I saw you swinging the staff around in the dojo yesterday. Must be your favorite weapon, huh?" Gladio takes a well-placed bite of his burger. "That knife work of yours is pretty sweet, though."

"I do fancy the staff, yes," Ignis says. "Although I believe my best defense still lies with a blade."

"Yeah?" One booted foot nudges his ankle. "We should spar sometime."

Ignis sets his glass down with a smirk. "You think so? I would so hate to embarrass you, Gladio."

The other man snorts. "Asshole."

Ignis chuckles.

They eat in silence for a moment, neither feeling the need to fill the void with conversation. As it had always been. Strange how Ignis had never noticed his level of comfort with Gladio until this moment.

"Damn, this tatt itches," Gladio says at last. He unbuttons the middle of his shirt and gives his chest a rub. "Figured after 5 days, it would stop that shit."

"Surely you shouldn't be scratching it," Ignis says.

"Probably not." Gladio says. "But I'm not scratching. I'm rubbing. Big difference."

He tugs at the fabric for better access to his shoulder, runs his palm over his collar bone and down the outline of the eagle's head upon his chest. Ignis swallows. Gods, the gesture is positively obscene somehow, even more so when yet another button pops open, which Gladio does not seem to notice.

_By the Six . . ._

Laying his palms flat upon the table, he pushes his chair away and rises to his feet. "If-if you will excuse me for a moment, Gladio."

The other man runs a hand through the damp spikes of his hair, his gaze one of curious scrutiny that Ignis seeks to evade as swiftly as possible. "Yeah, sure."

"I shall be right back," Ignis says.

 

 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

 

 

 

The bathroom is a single person affair, one for which Ignis is glad as he takes a moment to remove his spectacles, sliding them into his pocket for safekeeping while he splashes a repeated handful of cold water upon his face, rubbing at his eyes and pausing to glance at his dripping reflection in the mirror.

"You pull yourself together _this instant,_ " he orders his flushed countenance as sternly as he can manage.

This is his long-time friend. His companion that had seen him grow through the awkwardness of his teenage years and into young adulthood. Perhaps this is nothing more than a trifling , a passing fancy, one that neither had ever acted on and with good reason. Such things ruined friendships, complicated all things platonic. It mattered not that Gladio has grown into an even finer specimen of a man than Ignis could have ever anticipated, that the rigid discipline and structure had given way to something commanding yet calm.

_Great gods and stars._

Outside of the bathroom, the handle of the door begins to turn, which he has clearly forgotten to lock in his haste.

"Occupied!" Ignis barks with more ferocity than he means to, but whomever is on the other side seems determined to enter despite his warning.

The door swings open and Ignis glances up from patting his face dry, balancing the glasses upon his nose to bring the newcomer into sharp focus.

"Gladio . . . " he says.

The other man leans against the wall, head tilted to one side, arms folded across his chest. Hints of scars mar the edges of his forearms, a testament to Gladio's skill in battle, reminders of incidents Ignis has no knowledge of.

"You okay, Specs?"

No, Ignis thinks to himself. No I most certainly am not.

"I'm quite alright," Ignis says. "Just a bit warm is all."

Gladio scans his damp clothing with a critical eye. "Bullshit."

Ignis takes his time drying his fingers and tosses the paper towel into the waste bin beside the sink. "I assure you, I'm quite well."

The other man crosses the distance that separates them in four quick strides, his stature consuming every available amount of space until Ignis's steps backward, his back connecting with the stainless steel counter.

"Cut the crap," Gladio says. "You think I'm stupid or somethin'?"

Well, he was hoping that perhaps the other man might be a bit less perceptive, but as Gladio moves to further crowd him against the basins, Ignis struggles to remind himself to breathe. A hand lights upon his shoulder, the grip surprisingly gentle and Ignis forces his glance to meet Gladio's own.

"Whatever are you doing?" The words are too soft, almost vulnerable, and he despises himself for both their tone and inclination.

One callused finger slides the length of his jaw. "Something I should have been doing a long time ago."

"Gladio . . ." Ignis says, but the protest dies upon his tongue as Gladio cups his face with a hand that is far bigger than he can remember, his lips parting in a treasonous invitation.

The softness of Gladio's lips is a stark contrast to the roughened nature of his palm and try as he might to order the other man to stop, Ignis finds himself responding to the kiss with a fierce urgency.

A hand slips around his waist, pulls him away from the counter and against Gladio's rain-dampened chest, fingers splaying over the small of his back. "Iggy . . ."

That nickname. None but Gladio would dare to use it. Ignis slides his fingers into the wayward spikes of Gladio's hair and cranes his neck for another kiss, which Gladio eagerly provides.

"You wanna get out of here?"

Gladio's voice is dark rumble in his ear, prickling his already chilled skin to attention. The prudent thing to do would be to decline, to go back to his quarters and resume his duties, but the hand that spreads over his lower back presses him closer, fingers playing at the edges of his waistband.

"Yes," Ignis says.

 

 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little poetry goes a long way. (NSFW in spots)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if they have Whitman in this universe, but I'm saying they do. SO THERE! I so enjoyed writing this little fic! I hope the epilogue gives you all a good snicker.

The backseat of the cab is certainly accommodating enough for two, but Gladio will have none of it, his arm draped around Ignis's slighter frame, drawing him close until Ignis's head rests upon his chest, hand curled against his body, the warmth of Gladio's skin infusing heat into his own far better than any fire could ever manage. Twice, the other man pauses in his languid stroking of Ignis's side to nuzzle his ear, nipping at curve and rending a soft groan from Ignis despite his best attempts to conceal it.

"This is most indecent," Ignis says.

"Yeah?" Gladio kisses the slope of his neck. "I think you like it."

Despite his struggle to remain dignified, Ignis half-crawls into Gladio's lap, fisting his damp shirt and pulling Gladio down into a kiss that is demanding enough to gain an appreciative purr from the other man. Honestly, the two of them. Like two teenagers unable to control the whims of their hormones.

But Ignis cannot complain.

The ride back to the Citadel seems blissfully short despite a bit of late night traffic and Ignis leads the way to his doorstep with a purposeful stride. Just what he expects from his companion remains to be seen, but the advisor has dropped all manner of pretense for the time being.

A small spate of rain has seen to it that their clothing is soaked anew and Gladio's muffled sneeze is evidence that perhaps it is time to find the other man something a bit drier. Or at least, this is the excuse Ignis uses for his need to see the other man stripped of his shirt.

"Please take that off before you catch cold," Ignis says, pulling at the damp material of Gladio's sleeve.

Gladio cocks an eyebrow. "You know you don't get sick from getting wet, right?"

"Of course not," Ignis says a bit more indignantly than he prefers. "But it certainly does not hurt to take precautions."

"Precautions, huh?" A smirk curves one side of Gladio's mouth. "Well, I guess if it makes you feel better."

Before Ignis can further explain his "logic," Gladio unbuttons the shirt with purposeful ease, slides it from his broad shoulders, and drops it to the floor along with any shred of decorum that Ignis might have retained.

"Oh my word," Ignis murmurs.

While Gladio's attire leaves very little to the imagination as is, what lies beneath it is far more impressive than any image Ignis could have conjured on his own. The line work of the tattoo covers his entire back and shoulders, tracing a path down his arms and arcing over his chest. How long had he sat still for such a thing?

"You got a lot of books, Specs," Gladio says. He leans against the bookcase, running his fingers down the spine of a slender volume of poetry. "This Whitman?"

Ignis wets suddenly dry lips. "Yes."

"Mmm, yeah." Gladio caresses the leather. "Good shit." He tilts his head and regards Ignis with a stroke of his chin. "Which one do you like?"

"Which poem?" Ignis blinks, running a hand through the messy spikes of his hair. "I suppose I fancy 'Song of Myself' quite a bit."

"Yeah?" Gladio glances back at the book. "I like 'A Glimpse.' "

Ignis's eyes stray to the cobblestone musculature of Gladio's stomach. "I fear I cannot recall that one at the moment."

"No?" Gladio folds his arms. _" A glimpse through an interstice caught,_  
 _Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night . . ."_

He takes a step. Another. Closer. Closing the distance between them until Ignis feels his back connect with the wall, unknowing of just how he managed such a thing.

Gladio's hand upon his own, fingers twining.

_" . . . .and I unremark’d seated in a corner,_   
_Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand . . ."_

The fingers squeeze. Eyes the of richest brandy commanding his gaze, stilling his breath.

_"A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,_   
_There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word."_

Now the hand is upon his chest, slipping buttons from their structured holes.

"Gladio . . ." Ignis murmurs. "I . . . "

Lips brush the curve of his ear, the flick of a hot tongue tracing the shell.

"You what?"

"This is most unfair," Ignis breathes.

"Is it?" Gladio slides his hands over Ignis's hips, snagging a belt loop and jerking him closer. "Better get you out of these wet clothes, Iggy. Wouldn't want you to catch cold."

_Brazen, sarcastic bastard._

Against what might be considered his better judgment, Ignis allows himself to be half-dragged to the couch where the kissing and touches become more fervent and his defenses for such things continue to crumble within the capable grasp of Gladio's hands.

"You got somethin' we can use for---?"

"The drawer. There."

Ignis nods towards the end table and Gladio paws through the slender drawer without so much as a glance before coming up with a slender bottle.

"Hmm," Gladio muses between kisses. "You're full of surprises."

"One must always be prepared," Ignis pants against his mouth.

"Damn," Gladio murmurs. "I've wanted this a long time, Specs." He flicks amber eyes to the other man, a heated gaze beneath a fringe of dark lashes. "Wanted _you._ "

Ignis threads his fingers through the wild strands of Gladio's hair, a strange mix of softness mixed with the short rub of his closely clipped side pieces. "Have you?"

Kisses feather his chest, Gladio's tongue dragging a path of heat down his abdomen. "Oh yeah."

He unclasps the belt and slips the pants over the lean angles of Ignis's hips, sword-roughened fingers seeing to it that his boxers soon follow. Lips find his own and Ignis has no time to ponder his newfound nudity beneath the heavy weight of Gladio's equally unclothed body.

Gladio nuzzles his ear, the heat of his breath raising the hair along Ignis's neck. "I'm gonna make you feel so good, Iggy."

Heat flushes the advisor's fair cheeks, but fingers entangle in Gladio's mess of spikes just the same. "Well, then," he says. "I suggest you get to it."

"Bossy . . ." Gladio rumbles near his ear. "I like it."

The slick heat of his arousal presses against Ignis's body and the advisor arches his hips in an invitation which Gladio accepts. The Shield takes his time, sinking himself into Ignis's body inch by torturous inch until Ignis shudders with a gasp, short nails digging into the newly tattooed shoulders.

"Shit, did I hurt you?"

Such concern in Gladio's voice, mirrored in his eyes.

"Gods, no." Ignis arches into him with coaxing thrust of his hips. "Please . . . do not stop."

Gladio slides his arms beneath Ignis's slender body, gathering him into a tight embrace, shoving himself to the hilt until Ignis moans aloud. He wraps his legs around Gladio's hips and returns the thrust with one of his own, smiling against the other man's neck when it is Gladio who groans.

The sound of his pleasure is enough to send tight heat coiling through Ignis's core, the undulation of their bodies generating passionate friction that threatens to send Ignis over the edge.

Lips press against his ear, Gladio's stubbled skin hot against his temple. "Let go, Iggy."

As if he has a choice. Pleasure rushes upon the advisor with a stranglehold that holds his voice captive until his body clenches into a hard peak of need. The cry that spills from his lips is far louder than he intended, a lusty and relieving sound soon followed by Gladio's equally intense groan, a convulsive spasm of his body atop Ignis's own signifying the means to a very pleasurable end.

"Damn," Gladio pants atop him. He rolls onto his side, drawing Ignis into his arms, kissing his forehead and the tip of his nose. "You really got me."

"Did I?" Ignis murmurs against his chest.

"Sure as hell did." Gladio captures his mouth in a series of gentle, yet passionate kisses. "Hope you're not too tired."

Ignis chuckles. "You shall have to try much harder than that."

"Yeah?" Gladio nips at his neck. "That can be arranged, smartass."

Ignis slides his arms around Gladio's neck with purr of sound. "Then set about arranging it."

 

 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***

 

 

 

 

 

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

Gladio shifts onto his side, one hand patting the opposite side of the bed. Empty. Well, damn. Where the hell had he gone?

He runs a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair with a grunt and sits up, glancing around at the minimalistic perfection that is Ignis's bedroom. Wallet and keys atop the dresser. Shoes beside the door. Jacket hanging over the only chair in room . . . a chair with Gladio's carefully folded clothing upon it. Hell, Gladio doesn't even hang up his own clothes, much less fold them along the creases like that.

The button down shirt is curiously absent and for a moment, Gladio wonders if the other man has hung it in his closet or some shit. Seems like it might be a thing of his. But he rises from the bed without bothering to check, padding into open space of the living room in his boxers and bare feet.

The sound of metal clinking against glass greets him as he walks towards the kitchen with a yawn.

"Hey, Specs. How long have you been . . ."

Gladio's words trail into a halting stammer of sound. Ignis stand barefoot beside the counter, whisking the contents of bowl with one hand and adjusting his glasses with the other. The black button down all but swallows his lean frame, the sleeves rolled up his forearms and into a taut cuff, the top three buttons undone, the top seam of the shirt sliding to reveal one pale shoulder as Ignis tosses a glance his way.

"Good morning, Gladio," he says. "I trust you slept well?"

Gladio blinks. Shakes his head. Holy. Hot. Damn.

He saunters over to where Ignis stands and leans against the counter, arms folded across his chest, head tipped to one side. "Hmn. I was wondering where my shirt went."

The whisk stops mixing whatever the hell Ignis is conjuring in the bowl and he flicks Gladio a stare that could melt a goddamn glacier. "Oh, did you want it back?"

One hand reaches for the button that barely holds the fabric in place across his chest and Gladio smirks.

"Better leave it on," he says. "That is, unless you wanna be eating that breakfast three hours from now."

"Three hours?" The faintest hint of a smile curves Ignis's lips. "Aren't we the ambitious one?"

"That ain't ambition, Iggy." Gladio's voice drops nearly a fifth as he drags one callused finger over the sharp definition of Ignis's collarbone. "It's a warm up."

A coy glance as Ignis returns to whisking. "How do you like your eggs, then?"

"On a plate," Gladio replies.

A soft snort of a chuckle. Familiar, but rare. Gladio can't stop the crooked smile that quirks one side of his mouth. Damn Ignis. Too stupidly alluring for his own fucking good.

Ignis finishes doing whatever it is to the eggs and pours the contents of the bowl into a pan, stirring lightly until he's cooked up one hell of a mound of fluffy goodness. He sets a steaming pile of scrambled eggs complete with bacon and fresh sliced fruit in front of Gladio with a little hint of a flourish.

"There you are," he says. "On a plate, as requested."

Before he can straighten to go back for the other plate, Gladio fists a handful of the borrowed shirt and pulls him into a kiss, smiling against Ignis's mouth when the other man lets out some kind of sighing appreciation.

"Thanks, Iggy," Gladio says. He runs a light touch over the top of Ignis's hair, which is pushed away from his face into a sharp array of well-tamed spikes. "Like the hair, by the way Nice to see your eyes."

"Yes, well. It's a bit easier to see like this," Ignis says. "Quite practical, really."

Gladio smiles.

 

_~FINIS~_


End file.
